TO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO NOW ARRIVES UPON THE SCENE; AND A NEW
ADVENTURE WHICH HAPPENED TO OLIVER
It was almost too much happiness to bear. Oliver felt stunned and
stupefied by the unexpected intelligence; he could not weep, or
speak, or rest. He had scarcely the power of understanding anything
that had passed, until, after a long ramble in the quiet evening
air, a burst of tears came to his relief, and he seemed to awaken,
all at once, to a full sense of the joyful change that had occurred,
and the almost insupportable load of anguish which had been taken
from his breast.
The night was fast closing in, when he returned homeward: laden with
flowers which he had culled, with peculiar care, for the adornment
of the sick chamber. As he walked briskly along the road, he heard
behind him, the noise of some vehicle, approaching at a furious
pace. Looking round, he saw that it was a post-chaise, driven at
great speed; and as the horses were galloping, and the road was
narrow, he stood leaning against a gate until it should have passed
him.
As it dashed on, Oliver caught a glimpse of a man in a white
nightcap, whose face seemed familiar to him, although his view was
so brief that he could not identify the person. In another second
or two, the nightcap was thrust out of the chaise-window, and a
stentorian voice bellowed to the driver to stop: which he did, as
soon as he could pull up his horses. Then, the nightcap once again
appeared: and the same voice called Oliver by his name.
‘Here!’ cried the voice. ‘Oliver, what’s the news? Miss Rose! Master
O-li-ver!’
‘Is is you, Giles?’ cried Oliver, running up to the chaise-door.
Giles popped out his nightcap again, preparatory to making some
reply, when he was suddenly pulled back by a young gentleman who
occupied the other corner of the chaise, and who eagerly demanded
what was the news.
‘In a word!’ cried the gentleman, ‘Better or worse?’
‘Better--much better!’ replied Oliver, hastily.
‘Thank Heaven!’ exclaimed the gentleman. ‘You are sure?’
‘Quite, sir,’ replied Oliver. ‘The change took place only a few
hours ago; and Mr. Losberne says, that all danger is at an end.’
The gentleman said not another word, but, opening the chaise-door,
leaped out, and taking Oliver hurriedly by the arm, led him aside.
‘You are quite certain? There is no possibility of any mistake on
your part, my boy, is there?’ demanded the gentleman in a tremulous
voice. ‘Do not deceive me, by awakening hopes that are not to be
fulfilled.’
‘I would not for the world, sir,’ replied Oliver. ‘Indeed you may
believe me. Mr. Losberne’s words were, that she would live to bless
us all for many years to come. I heard him say so.’
The tears stood in Oliver’s eyes as he recalled the scene which was
the beginning of so much happiness; and the gentleman turned his
face away, and remained silent, for some minutes. Oliver thought he
heard him sob, more than once; but he feared to interrupt him by any
fresh remark--for he could well guess what his feelings were--and so
stood apart, feigning to be occupied with his nosegay.
All this time, Mr. Giles, with the white nightcap on, had been
sitting on the steps of the chaise, supporting an elbow on each
knee, and wiping his eyes with a blue cotton pocket-handkerchief
dotted with white spots. That the honest fellow had not been
feigning emotion, was abundantly demonstrated by the very red eyes
with which he regarded the young gentleman, when he turned round and
addressed him.
‘I think you had better go on to my mother’s in the chaise, Giles,’
said he. ‘I would rather walk slowly on, so as to gain a little time
before I see her. You can say I am coming.’
‘I beg your pardon, Mr. Harry,’ said Giles: giving a final polish
to his ruffled countenance with the handkerchief; ‘but if you would
leave the postboy to say that, I should be very much obliged to you.
It wouldn’t be proper for the maids to see me in this state, sir; I
should never have any more authority with them if they did.’
‘Well,’ rejoined Harry Maylie, smiling, ‘you can do as you like. Let
him go on with the luggage, if you wish it, and do you follow with
us. Only first exchange that nightcap for some more appropriate
covering, or we shall be taken for madmen.’
Mr. Giles, reminded of his unbecoming costume, snatched off and
pocketed his nightcap; and substituted a hat, of grave and sober
shape, which he took out of the chaise. This done, the postboy drove
off; Giles, Mr. Maylie, and Oliver, followed at their leisure.
As they walked along, Oliver glanced from time to time with
much interest and curiosity at the new comer. He seemed about
five-and-twenty years of age, and was of the middle height; his
countenance was frank and handsome; and his demeanor easy and
prepossessing. Notwithstanding the difference between youth and age,
he bore so strong a likeness to the old lady, that Oliver would have
had no great difficulty in imagining their relationship, if he had
not already spoken of her as his mother.
Mrs. Maylie was anxiously waiting to receive her son when he reached
the cottage. The meeting did not take place without great emotion on
both sides.
‘Mother!’ whispered the young man; ‘why did you not write before?’
‘I did,’ replied Mrs. Maylie; ‘but, on reflection, I determined to
keep back the letter until I had heard Mr. Losberne’s opinion.’
‘But why,’ said the young man, ‘why run the chance of that occurring
which so nearly happened? If Rose had--I cannot utter that word
now--if this illness had terminated differently, how could you ever
have forgiven yourself! How could I ever have know happiness again!’
‘If that _had_ been the case, Harry,’ said Mrs. Maylie, ‘I fear
your happiness would have been effectually blighted, and that your
arrival here, a day sooner or a day later, would have been of very,
very little import.’
‘And who can wonder if it be so, mother?’ rejoined the young man;
‘or why should I say, _if_?--It is--it is--you know it, mother--you
must know it!’
‘I know that she deserves the best and purest love the heart of
man can offer,’ said Mrs. Maylie; ‘I know that the devotion and
affection of her nature require no ordinary return, but one that
shall be deep and lasting. If I did not feel this, and know,
besides, that a changed behaviour in one she loved would break her
heart, I should not feel my task so difficult of performance, or
have to encounter so many struggles in my own bosom, when I take
what seems to me to be the strict line of duty.’
‘This is unkind, mother,’ said Harry. ‘Do you still suppose that I
am a boy ignorant of my own mind, and mistaking the impulses of my
own soul?’
‘I think, my dear son,’ returned Mrs. Maylie, laying her hand upon
his shoulder, ‘that youth has many generous impulses which do not
last; and that among them are some, which, being gratified, become
only the more fleeting. Above all, I think’ said the lady, fixing
her eyes on her son’s face, ‘that if an enthusiastic, ardent, and
ambitious man marry a wife on whose name there is a stain, which,
though it originate in no fault of hers, may be visited by cold and
sordid people upon her, and upon his children also: and, in exact
proportion to his success in the world, be cast in his teeth,
and made the subject of sneers against him: he may, no matter how
generous and good his nature, one day repent of the connection he
formed in early life. And she may have the pain of knowing that he
does so.’
‘Mother,’ said the young man, impatiently, ‘he would be a selfish
brute, unworthy alike of the name of man and of the woman you
describe, who acted thus.’
‘You think so now, Harry,’ replied his mother.
‘And ever will!’ said the young man. ‘The mental agony I have
suffered, during the last two days, wrings from me the avowal to you
of a passion which, as you well know, is not one of yesterday, nor
one I have lightly formed. On Rose, sweet, gentle girl! my heart
is set, as firmly as ever heart of man was set on woman. I have no
thought, no view, no hope in life, beyond her; and if you oppose me
in this great stake, you take my peace and happiness in your hands,
and cast them to the wind. Mother, think better of this, and of me,
and do not disregard the happiness of which you seem to think so
little.’
‘Harry,’ said Mrs. Maylie, ‘it is because I think so much of warm
and sensitive hearts, that I would spare them from being wounded.
But we have said enough, and more than enough, on this matter, just
now.’
‘Let it rest with Rose, then,’ interposed Harry. ‘You will not
press these overstrained opinions of yours, so far, as to throw any
obstacle in my way?’
‘I will not,’ rejoined Mrs. Maylie; ‘but I would have you
consider--’
‘I _have_ considered!’ was the impatient reply; ‘Mother, I have
considered, years and years. I have considered, ever since I have
been capable of serious reflection. My feelings remain unchanged,
as they ever will; and why should I suffer the pain of a delay in
giving them vent, which can be productive of no earthly good? No!
Before I leave this place, Rose shall hear me.’
‘She shall,’ said Mrs. Maylie.
‘There is something in your manner, which would almost imply that
she will hear me coldly, mother,’ said the young man.
‘Not coldly,’ rejoined the old lady; ‘far from it.’
‘How then?’ urged the young man. ‘She has formed no other
attachment?’
‘No, indeed,’ replied his mother; ‘you have, or I mistake, too
strong a hold on her affections already. What I would say,’ resumed
the old lady, stopping her son as he was about to speak, ‘is this.
Before you stake your all on this chance; before you suffer yourself
to be carried to the highest point of hope; reflect for a few
moments, my dear child, on Rose’s history, and consider what effect
the knowledge of her doubtful birth may have on her decision:
devoted as she is to us, with all the intensity of her noble mind,
and with that perfect sacrifice of self which, in all matters, great
or trifling, has always been her characteristic.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘That I leave you to discover,’ replied Mrs. Maylie. ‘I must go back
to her. God bless you!’
‘I shall see you again to-night?’ said the young man, eagerly.
‘By and by,’ replied the lady; ‘when I leave Rose.’
‘You will tell her I am here?’ said Harry.
‘Of course,’ replied Mrs. Maylie.
‘And say how anxious I have been, and how much I have suffered, and
how I long to see her. You will not refuse to do this, mother?’
‘No,’ said the old lady; ‘I will tell her all.’ And pressing her
son’s hand, affectionately, she hastened from the room.
Mr. Losberne and Oliver had remained at another end of the apartment
while this hurried conversation was proceeding. The former now held
out his hand to Harry Maylie; and hearty salutations were exchanged
between them. The doctor then communicated, in reply to multifarious
questions from his young friend, a precise account of his patient’s
situation; which was quite as consolatory and full of promise, as
Oliver’s statement had encouraged him to hope; and to the whole
of which, Mr. Giles, who affected to be busy about the luggage,
listened with greedy ears.
‘Have you shot anything particular, lately, Giles?’ inquired the
doctor, when he had concluded.
‘Nothing particular, sir,’ replied Mr. Giles, colouring up to the
eyes.
‘Nor catching any thieves, nor identifying any house-breakers?’ said
the doctor.
‘None at all, sir,’ replied Mr. Giles, with much gravity.
‘Well,’ said the doctor, ‘I am sorry to hear it, because you do that
sort of thing admirably. Pray, how is Brittles?’
‘The boy is very well, sir,’ said Mr. Giles, recovering his usual
tone of patronage; ‘and sends his respectful duty, sir.’
‘That’s well,’ said the doctor. ‘Seeing you here, reminds me, Mr.
Giles, that on the day before that on which I was called away so
hurriedly, I executed, at the request of your good mistress, a small
commission in your favour. Just step into this corner a moment, will
you?’
Mr. Giles walked into the corner with much importance, and some
wonder, and was honoured with a short whispering conference with the
doctor, on the termination of which, he made a great many bows, and
retired with steps of unusual stateliness. The subject matter of
this conference was not disclosed in the parlour, but the kitchen
was speedily enlightened concerning it; for Mr. Giles walked
straight thither, and having called for a mug of ale, announced,
with an air of majesty, which was highly effective, that it had
pleased his mistress, in consideration of his gallant behaviour on
the occasion of that attempted robbery, to deposit, in the local
savings-bank, the sum of five-and-twenty pounds, for his sole use
and benefit. At this, the two women-servants lifted up their hands
and eyes, and supposed that Mr. Giles, pulling out his shirt-frill,
replied, ‘No, no’; and that if they observed that he was at all
haughty to his inferiors, he would thank them to tell him so. And
then he made a great many other remarks, no less illustrative of his
humility, which were received with equal favour and applause, and
were, withal, as original and as much to the purpose, as the remarks
of great men commonly are.
Above stairs, the remainder of the evening passed cheerfully
away; for the doctor was in high spirits; and however fatigued or
thoughtful Harry Maylie might have been at first, he was not proof
against the worthy gentleman’s good humour, which displayed itself
in a great variety of sallies and professional recollections, and an
abundance of small jokes, which struck Oliver as being the drollest
things he had ever heard, and caused him to laugh proportionately;
to the evident satisfaction of the doctor, who laughed immoderately
at himself, and made Harry laugh almost as heartily, by the very
force of sympathy. So, they were as pleasant a party as, under the
circumstances, they could well have been; and it was late before
they retired, with light and thankful hearts, to take that rest of
which, after the doubt and suspense they had recently undergone,
they stood much in need.
Oliver rose next morning, in better heart, and went about his usual
occupations, with more hope and pleasure than he had known for
many days. The birds were once more hung out, to sing, in their old
places; and the sweetest wild flowers that could be found, were
once more gathered to gladden Rose with their beauty. The melancholy
which had seemed to the sad eyes of the anxious boy to hang, for
days past, over every object, beautiful as all were, was dispelled
by magic. The dew seemed to sparkle more brightly on the green
leaves; the air to rustle among them with a sweeter music; and the
sky itself to look more blue and bright. Such is the influence
which the condition of our own thoughts, exercise, even over the
appearance of external objects. Men who look on nature, and their
fellow-men, and cry that all is dark and gloomy, are in the right;
but the sombre colours are reflections from their own jaundiced eyes
and hearts. The real hues are delicate, and need a clearer vision.
It is worthy of remark, and Oliver did not fail to note it at the
time, that his morning expeditions were no longer made alone. Harry
Maylie, after the very first morning when he met Oliver coming laden
home, was seized with such a passion for flowers, and displayed
such a taste in their arrangement, as left his young companion far
behind. If Oliver were behindhand in these respects, he knew where
the best were to be found; and morning after morning they scoured
the country together, and brought home the fairest that blossomed.
The window of the young lady’s chamber was opened now; for she
loved to feel the rich summer air stream in, and revive her with its
freshness; but there always stood in water, just inside the lattice,
one particular little bunch, which was made up with great care,
every morning. Oliver could not help noticing that the withered
flowers were never thrown away, although the little vase was
regularly replenished; nor, could he help observing, that whenever
the doctor came into the garden, he invariably cast his eyes up to
that particular corner, and nodded his head most expressively, as
he set forth on his morning’s walk. Pending these observations, the
days were flying by; and Rose was rapidly recovering.
Nor did Oliver’s time hang heavy on his hands, although the young
lady had not yet left her chamber, and there were no evening walks,
save now and then, for a short distance, with Mrs. Maylie. He
applied himself, with redoubled assiduity, to the instructions of
the white-headed old gentleman, and laboured so hard that his quick
progress surprised even himself. It was while he was engaged in
this pursuit, that he was greatly startled and distressed by a most
unexpected occurrence.
The little room in which he was accustomed to sit, when busy at his
books, was on the ground-floor, at the back of the house. It was
quite a cottage-room, with a lattice-window: around which were
clusters of jessamine and honeysuckle, that crept over the casement,
and filled the place with their delicious perfume. It looked into
a garden, whence a wicket-gate opened into a small paddock; all
beyond, was fine meadow-land and wood. There was no other dwelling
near, in that direction; and the prospect it commanded was very
extensive.
One beautiful evening, when the first shades of twilight were
beginning to settle upon the earth, Oliver sat at this window,
intent upon his books. He had been poring over them for some time;
and, as the day had been uncommonly sultry, and he had exerted
himself a great deal, it is no disparagement to the authors, whoever
they may have been, to say, that gradually and by slow degrees, he
fell asleep.
There is a kind of sleep that steals upon us sometimes, which, while
it holds the body prisoner, does not free the mind from a sense of
things about it, and enable it to ramble at its pleasure. So far as
an overpowering heaviness, a prostration of strength, and an utter
inability to control our thoughts or power of motion, can be called
sleep, this is it; and yet, we have a consciousness of all that is
going on about us, and, if we dream at such a time, words which
are really spoken, or sounds which really exist at the moment,
accommodate themselves with surprising readiness to our visions,
until reality and imagination become so strangely blended that it is
afterwards almost matter of impossibility to separate the two. Nor
is this, the most striking phenomenon incidental to such a state. It
is an undoubted fact, that although our senses of touch and sight
be for the time dead, yet our sleeping thoughts, and the visionary
scenes that pass before us, will be influenced and materially
influenced, by the _mere silent presence_ of some external object;
which may not have been near us when we closed our eyes: and of
whose vicinity we have had no waking consciousness.
Oliver knew, perfectly well, that he was in his own little room;
that his books were lying on the table before him; that the sweet
air was stirring among the creeping plants outside. And yet he
was asleep. Suddenly, the scene changed; the air became close and
confined; and he thought, with a glow of terror, that he was in the
Jew’s house again. There sat the hideous old man, in his accustomed
corner, pointing at him, and whispering to another man, with his
face averted, who sat beside him.
‘Hush, my dear!’ he thought he heard the Jew say; ‘it is he, sure
enough. Come away.’
‘He!’ the other man seemed to answer; ‘could I mistake him, think
you? If a crowd of ghosts were to put themselves into his exact
shape, and he stood amongst them, there is something that would tell
me how to point him out. If you buried him fifty feet deep, and took
me across his grave, I fancy I should know, if there wasn’t a mark
above it, that he lay buried there?’
The man seemed to say this, with such dreadful hatred, that Oliver
awoke with the fear, and started up.
Good Heaven! what was that, which sent the blood tingling to
his heart, and deprived him of his voice, and of power to move!
There--there--at the window--close before him--so close, that he
could have almost touched him before he started back: with his eyes
peering into the room, and meeting his: there stood the Jew! And
beside him, white with rage or fear, or both, were the scowling
features of the man who had accosted him in the inn-yard.
It was but an instant, a glance, a flash, before his eyes; and they
were gone. But they had recognised him, and he them; and their look
was as firmly impressed upon his memory, as if it had been deeply
carved in stone, and set before him from his birth. He stood
transfixed for a moment; then, leaping from the window into the
garden, called loudly for help.